


The Nest

by Sp00py



Series: A Study in Snuffering [6]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Claustrophobia, Fear, Molestation, Non-Consensual Kissing, Other, Panic Attacks, a stupid but perceptive snufkin, bad cuddles, cameos of Doceo_Percepto's Joxters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-17 23:31:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14841293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: A Snufkin comes across some Joxters in a tree.





	The Nest

Snufkin rarely thinks on where he is going, only on where he is in this moment. Right now it’s raining -- that soft sort of rain muffled by fog, not warm but not cold either. He lets it soak through his overcoat, soak through his skin. In this moment he’s just fog and soil, nothing else. Not a Snufkin, not anybody at all.  
  
He finds his flute at his lips as if it has always been there, and instinctively Snufkin begins to play a song of 'rain and fog and nothing much at all' just for himself, which is the best kind of song when alone. Snufkin loves being alone very much, perhaps more than even other Snufkins.  
  
The song changes as he goes under trees, incorporating their plinks and shivers of raindrops as wind blows through, promising harder rains to come. The notes meander and dance, and Snufkin almost misses when a new noise is added to the refrain. Now it’s 'rain and fog and an unusual _chitter_ of all things,' one loud enough to bring Snufkin back to himself.  
  
He opens his eyes and takes a moment to reorient himself. The rain falls differently here. It soaks into the ground and turns it to a foreboding slurry of leaves and mud. He looks up. A dozen bright eyes look down. His song trips, falls, and Snufkin doesn’t bother retrieving it.  
  
They watch each other, Snufkin and the Joxters. Snufkin wants to move, keep going and find a safe little place from the storm, but his limbs are frozen, as though his body knows running gets one  _hunted_. He doesn’t like this strange reaction, the silence. He needs it broken.  
  
"Hello," he says to the Joxters high above. His voice has the faintest wobble to it.  
  
They stare, blinking slowly, whiskers quivering. Snufkin pockets his flute. There has to be at least eight in the network of fir branches above.  
  
Snufkin begins walking, this time more mindfully, aware of eyes on him. What an odd bunch.  
  
"Where are you off to, dear?" One of the Joxters asks, as though action finally caught up to thought. Snufkin pauses. He has never met a Joxter before, but he's heard of them in passing from Hemulens, Fillyjonks, and Whompers. Rule breakers, like Snufkins, free from society, like Snufkins. From other Snufkins and Mymbles he's heard they're the fathers of Snufkins, though he has no father. Regardless, they seem similar enough to Snufkins that he doesn't know why he's worried.  
  
He searches for which had spoken, but gives up and simply addresses the whole. "Nowhere."  
  
"It's raining."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Stay. At least until the storm passes."  
  
Snufkin hesitates. There are a lot of them up there. He doesn’t really like a lot of people.

"It's getting bigger," the Joxter says, voice an appealing purr, like a cat’s. "And you are very small."  
  
Snufkin can’t argue with that. The thunder vibrates in his lungs every time he inhales, and he’s seen Hattifatteners riled and glowing. A strong storm is coming, and safe shelter isn't a guarantee, especially with this slope. Joxters, he thinks, are much like Snufkins so would know how to weather a storm.  
  
As though to spite this unwanted feeling knotting inside telling him not to, he nods. He’ll stay. At least until the storm passes.  
  
The Joxters smile and toss down a rope ladder for him. Snufkin climbs up, stops on the edge of their nest, and peeks in to see if there is any danger that he could only sense before.  
  
The nest the Joxters have built for themselves is surprisingly dry for how lazy Snufkin has taken them to be: a series of hammocks woven with branches, rope, and lengths of fabric repurposed, it looks, from clothes and sheets. The greens help it blend well into the canopy, and a second layer drapes a little higher, a rain-stained roof. Flowers and packs lay scattered between Joxters resting on one another. There are in fact about ten of them, night eyes wide and flashing in the rainy gloom, all cuddled together. A little claustrophobic but nothing _dangerous_. Snufkin can hold over until the storm passed.  
  
He shakes off what he can of the rain and climbs gingerly over Joxters until he finds an empty spot. They watch, that strange, quiet -- almost pleased if Snufkin had to interpret it -- chuffing building from all sides.  
  
Something pulls at the buttons of his coat. Snufkin jerks forward.  
  
"What are you doing!" he demands, that wrong feeling back threefold, but it’s too late. The storm’s almost here, rains picking up, and he can’t leave. Lightning cracks and thunder rumbles just above. Snufkin crosses his arms over himself and breathes heavily through his nose. He just feels smothered; he's nervous. This is some misunderstanding.   
  
"Your coat's all wet," the Joxter says reasonably, paws still up. "You shouldn't be wearing it."  
  
"I can take it off myself, not that I want to."

The Joxters ignore him and grab again. Snufkin twists, fighting silently as he’s done for years against Hemulens, but those wandering paws turn rough and firm as oak on his limbs. His coat is unbuttoned and pulled from him. Panic coils up, like a spring held tight by the Joxters. He can’t stop it. He fights his natural inclination toward _silence_ toward _sneaking_ , he gulps down a breath --

"Let go!"  
  
They do.

Snufkin falls almost through a gap in the blankets but catches on the ropes strung between branches. The Joxters chitter and shift in anticipation. A trapped Snufkin is a rare sight, something forbidden.

Snufkin can’t get up and he can’t get down. He’s trying so hard but he _can’t._  Every frantic movement only tangles his wrist and legs, only drives him further to escape. As soon as he thinks he might be free, a paw ghosts across him, and he slips.  
  
"Don't touch me," he gasps, slumping against the branches, heart racing, ears buzzing with his wheezy breath. The branches are sharp-scented and scratchy where they find Snufkin's skin, a relief from all the cloying softness.  
  
"What's wrong?" One of the Joxters asks. Snufkin looked up. He had green eyes, pale like sea glass.  
  
"You're touching me."  
  
"You're in need of touch, I say," the Joxter says, to agreement around him. "You waste too much energy avoiding it, dear. It's exhausting just to watch."  
  
"Are you his pappa?" another interrupts. The Joxter glances away from Snufkin. He finds he can breathe again. "He has your eyes."  
  
"Hup-hum,” he answers thoughtfully. “Do you think I could be your pappa, Snufkin?" His gaze is back on Snufkin, who just shrugs, mutters something unintelligible, and pulls in on himself.

"I think I'd like to be," the Joxter decides for him. He crawled flush to Snufkin, far more comfortable in the trees, and presses his fingers to Snufkin's shoulder. Snufkin glares. He doesn't _like_  being touched. He is small even for a Snufkin; it often leads to people picking him up, or petting him, or swatting him like some misbehaving woodie. It upsets him and frustrates him to no end, and no Snufkin enjoys being either of those.  
  
His hat is knocked off, then the Joxter trails paws like spiders down his arms, to his wrists, and gently untangles him. This upsets him, too, but it is also more uncomfortable than anything Snufkin knows. The Joxter pulls Snufkin against himself, away from the strained nesting. Snufkin, confused into inaction, lets him. Another Joxter with hair like a fox’s ears quickly fixes the ropes and settles protectively on top.

The Joxter rests his head on Snufkin's, breaths in his rain scents and warmth. Snufkin shivers in his shirt, missing the weight of his wet overcoat. This is taken as invitation to be hugged, enveloped in a musky evergreen smell that reminds Snufkin of winter and sleep. It should be warm but only makes him colder.  
  
The green-eyed Joxter continues to rub his arms and cuddle him. He seems content to simply do that. More paws, far less content, touch Snufkin. They’re all a little different, black hands or black gloves or banded marks, but they feel like one groping mass.  
  
"Don't move, dear, Pappa is trying to sleep," the Joxter mutters, squeezing him tighter. Snufkin thought Joxters were much like Snufkins. He now knows that's not true. There's something fundamentally  _wrong_ with Joxters, something nobody ever talks about. He doesn't understand what they're doing, or why.  
  
Snufkin doesn't know what to say to that, so just ignores it in the faint hope the Joxter decides on his own to not be his too-affectionate father. Another Joxter, this one with pale brown eyes, settles in front of him and strokes his face, pushes his hair behind his ears. "Are you afraid?"  
  
Snufkin licks his lips, tastes the rain in the air, the ozone charge that makes him shiver. Is that what this is? Fear? Snufkins live lives devoid of fear. They go where they want, do what they please, meet and part from a hundred people without a problem. Snufkin doesn’t know if he’s afraid, but this feeling is Bad and more Joxters are crowding close as though feeding on it through their fingertips and he wants to cry but not here --  
  
"How lovely you are," the Joxter in front of him murmurs, urging Snufkin’s tears to fall with thumbs brushing under the soft skin of his eyes. The kiss that follows is gross, invasive, thrusting into his mouth and he doesn’t think to close his teeth until it’s too late and he can’t bring himself to bite, because what if there’s _blood_ , what if the paws on him turn to claws. Snufkin kicks, trying to pull away, and whines into the Joxter's mouth. Thin fingers find his thighs and massage. The Joxter leans back, a strand of saliva between them that breaks as he blows a disappointed raspberry. "You're just as bad as the others." That skin-crawling chitter rose up from around them, amused. The casual admittance there’d been others sickens Snufkin.  
  
Snufkin thinks the Joxter will leave him, then, since he seems displeased, but the Joxter just lays his head in Snufkin's lap, a purr vibrating against his belly. He nuzzled himself between Snufkin's legs, creating a discomfiting ache. Snufkin tries, this time, not to writhe, not to create more friction.  
  
"Relax, dear," another says against his ear, tickling the sensitive skin there. "You're all wet." A ripple of laughter at something Snufkin missed passed around then faded. The whiskery sensation settles inside him like the rubbing at his groin, like the fear he now identifies. It’s warm and heavy, sickly sweet and tight.  
  
"It-It's raining," Snufkin says, a defensive blush on his cheeks. The rain lashes against the fabric of the nest with a silvery noise that Snufkin should be catching in song. Instead, he is captured in a dark, dank little nest. He'll gladly take the lightning and wind to this supposed safety.  
  
"And you were out in it, poor Snufkin. We'll warm you up. Ears to belly to toes."  He brushes against Snufkin's ears and stomach, earning a flinch each time. "You're so tense."  
  
At those words, more Joxters begin to knead, maneuver him down into a tangle of sour smells and limbs not his own. Breathing is impossible, not because a Joxter is laying on him while someone nibbles his ear, though that is true as well, but because his lungs feel shriveled and useless, like punctured balloons. His lips tingle with every shallow wheeze he can manage, and his eyes follow the stitchwork paths of the nest's covering. He thinks of the paths he should be on right now, deer trails and waterways, following the notes of his flute as the wind carries them away. He wants away from here. He wants the storm, not _this_.  
  
Snufkin knows in some animal part of him that things will only get worse if he doesn’t get away. They will hurt him. They can, as easily as they stoke and squeeze, and they want to. He knows this though he doesn’t know why. This time he listens to the feeling, something exposed, vulnerable, despite the overwhelming heat from the Joxters crowding close.Then he realizes -- the hammocks, green like tents and coats. Snufkin tents and coats. There were so many before him. He knows now that he’ll die if he does nothing. He can’t die yet. The world’s so big, and he’s so small, and he wants to explore it all.  
  
"Pappa," Snufkin gasps, praying it works. It’s hard to be clever when you’re sure you’re to be murdered. The green-eyed Joxter leans in from the rest.  
  
"Yes, love?"  
  
"Pappa, I can't breathe."  
  
The Joxter shoos away several others and sets Snufkin's head in his lap. He pets his face and hair soothingly. Snufkin hates that it does help, a little. He's desperate for space. It helps orient him, separate him from the Joxters trying to fold him into them like a tar pit devouring a mouse.  
  
Snufkin rolls over as though to hide his face in the Joxter’s lap and pulls his legs up close.  The Joxter strokes his back and hair, and it almost is nice except that Snufkin has plans other than acclimating to this. He won’t find any true comfort here.  
  
He shoves himself up hard and fast, catches the Joxter in the chin, and sends him toppling backwards with a cry. Snufkin kicks at the other at his feet, scrambles away. The Joxters are slow to respond, sluggish in the storm, and Snufkin makes it nearly to the ladder before hands catch his ankles. They roll and others get in, and Snufkin's paw slips right through the blankets again.  
  
This time there is only air and branches. Before Snufkin can think to use this to his advantage, he plunges through. He shrieks, then hits the ground with a wet crunch.  
  
Above him Joxters watch, but make no move to follow. His hat and overcoat fall down onto him.  Snufkin struggles to breathe for a very different reason now.  
  
He tries to scream then gives up when all he manages is a pathetic whine, back and lungs aching. Fear laces through his veins, still, reminding him to listen, to flee. His flute hits him in the head, and laughter erupted from the trees. It doesn’t matter. He’s free. _Run._  
  
Snufkin rolls painfully to his feet and drags his sodden hat and coat on, weighted down by the mud sluicing lazily by. It seems they’re keeping his pack, which is fine, as is the storm that only grows stronger, lashing down on Snufkin, washing away the moistness of their touches. All Sufkin needs is rain and fog and space.  
  
He limps away quickly, shivering at the memory of lips and fingers and awful chittering noises. He decides not to think on it as much as he can, simply return to the present and always listen to his instinct. Snufkins travel the world, seeking new experiences, but the acrid taste of fear, the phantom contact, the pain from what is likely a broken finger -- those are things Snufkin would rather do without.  
  
Joxters are _nothing_ like Snufkins in the wild. Snufkin knew this in some primal way he ignored, a way that suggests this is how Joxters have been for a long, long time. He knew it in his blood, and now he knows it in his head. He wants to stop thinking, but his mind is still back in that dim, damp nest that smelled sourly of sweat, wet Joxter, and fear.

Snufkin likewise knows that, terrible as it was, touching is the least a Joxter does to a Snufkin. He’s too young, too naive, to tread that dark place and assume what they can do, but Snufkins are intuitive. He knows it’s there now, a secret, black pit. Things have been done to other Snufkins, done who knows how many times, with no remorse, only dark pleasure. Tearing away their freedom, their lives.

The rain washes away Snufkin’s hot tears, leaving a fresh chill in their wake.

He finds an overhang not likely to flood or collapse, crawls in, falls into dark, restless sleep. He sleeps for hours, sleeps through the storm, through sunset, through the cresting of the moon. He wants to sleep away this knowledge now painfully exposed.

Snufkin wakes up late in the night, to clear skies and crickets chirping. He listens, wary, body still not quite nothing anymore like it should be, but getting there. Something is hiding in the deafening buzz. It’s a different type of chirrup, the kind cats make when watching birds. Or Snufkins.

He’s not hurt, he’s only scared, only bruised. He can run.

He does.


End file.
